


Remember Where the Pieces Fit

by mokuyoubi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bondage, Bottom Hannibal, Kinbaku, Light BDSM, M/M, Rough Sex, Season 2, Shibari, Top Will Graham, and it would change how things fell out, at least in my mind, because I don't think they were fucking in season 2, fwiw, semenawa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 10:07:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6150133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal brings up the therapeutic benefits of BDSM, but when Will shows up for his next session with several bundles of coconut jute, he thinks this probably isn't what Hannibal had in mind.<br/>Set during season 2 sometime post Naka-choko and pre Mizumono</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember Where the Pieces Fit

**Author's Note:**

> Translated into 日本語 [here](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/6493894)
> 
> For the tumblr prompt:  
> Hey! I know you must be getting tons and tons of prompts. But I'll add one more in that growing pile: I'd love to scene set in late s2 (before mizumono, maybe part of Will's "seducting Hannibal"-plan) where boys have BDSM-sex: Will tying Hannibal down, aggressive lovemaking ensues. And bonus points is Hanni snarks to Will about knots and/or other equipment Will is using.
> 
> I don't think Hannibal could really complain about Will's knots--I mean, he is a sailor, but I tried to throw a little snark in there regarding the type of rope :D  
> I see this as a sort of canon divergence because of some of the things said, that if I were allow this to grow out of hand lengthwise, would lead to some different actions and decisions on Will's part.

“I wonder,” Will says, more thinking aloud to himself than looking for a response from Hannibal, “if this is what you intended when you were extolling the therapeutic benefits of bondage.”

Hannibal shifts, muscles straining against the rope twining around his shoulders and arms, pinning his wrists in place high on his back. Will gets distracted by the sight of the thin, braided strands biting into his skin and the raspy sound of it, prickly grain of the coconut jute. 

Will adjusts his newest addition, bisecting Hannibal’s chest just below his pectoral muscles, straightening the double strands so they lay flat, before tucking the end through, lacing it under, and tugging up sharply. Hannibal lets out a grunt as Will brings it over his shoulder and under his bound arms, letting all the frayed, scratchy threads drag unpleasantly on sensitive skin.

When Will walked into his office, only a few short hours ago and pulled several bundles of the rope from his bag, Hannibal had merely studied him for a long moment, the silence as taut as the rope now wound around him, and finally suggested they relocate this session to his home.

Even then, Will thinks Hannibal may have misinterpreted his intentions, but he’s taken it all in stride, never flinching. Not even now. He regards Will evenly. That same detached, clinical calm that has Will teetering over the dangerous edge of reason, all in the name of breaking it.

Will knows that to Hannibal, the discomfort is easily avoidable. All he need do is retreat into his mind--no doubt what he intended to accomplish with Will when he made the suggestion--but doing so would divide his attention. Will knows also that Hannibal is greedy for even the smallest insight into Will’s mind--so much so that retreating is not a real option.

“It is true that I believe you would benefit from taking on the role of the submissive,” Hannibal says. His breathing is only slightly more laboured than usual. He could easily blame it on the bindings, were Will to point it out. 

“Whether through rope play, or pain play, or with a scene, surrendering yourself entirely, giving over to, and being overwhelmed by pure sensation can relieve anxiety and have a profoundly positive effect on one’s mental well-being. Submissives often describe it as leaving one’s mind altogether and entering a sort of subspace.”

“Huh,” Will mutters. He pulls the end of the first rope through the o-ring and knots it off. “Well you let me know when it starts kicking in, Doctor.”

“That isn’t to say,” Hannibal continues, as if Will hadn’t spoken, “that playing the role of the dominant partner doesn’t also have it’s benefits.”

Will places a hand square on Hannibal’s chest and shoves him backwards, taking perverse pleasure in the way he falls gracelessly on the bed, unable to catch himself. “I’m no psychiatrist, but I’d say it’s helping me work through some issues.”

Hannibal looks up at him through his lashes, eyes narrowed dangerously, though his face remains expressionless. “It pleases me to hear that, Will.”

Will hums. He has three more bundles of rope, and an abundance of patience, and Hannibal is still far too collected.

“Acting as the Dom requires focus and concentration. One must remain in careful control, lest the scene spin out of control. An experienced Dom can read his submissive's every cue and see to his every need. In this way, you are uniquely qualified for the role.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” Will keeps his tone light and playful, as he undoes Hannibal’s slacks and jerks them down. Hannibal lifts his hips to aid in this endeavour, as much as he is able in his position. Beneath, he wears silky black boxers, the material pulled across his groin with the first stirrings of arousal. 

For now, Will leaves them in place. He drags the flat of his palm up the inside of Hannibal’s leg, his touch rough, catching and pulling on hair and the soft, giving skin of his thigh. He allows himself a moment’s distraction, flattening the heel of his hand over Hannibal’s cock and rolling it back and forth before continuing onward. 

“I would never dream of attempting to sway you as such,” Hannibal says.

“Only because I’m no slave to my ego,” Will shoots back, giving the o-ring a firm tug. It jerks Hannibal’s head back, exposing the line of his throat drawn tight. Before the night is out, Will plans to leave his mark there as well. He only wishes he could be a fly on the wall when Hannibal explains all these new marks to Alana. 

Hannibal tips his head in thoughtful agreement “No.” He glances between them purposefully, as Will begins to work the second rope, fixing it around Hannibal’s ankle, then says, “Traditionally a washed and treated length of hemp rope is used in the practice of Shibari. It is strong and sturdy, and there is less instance of slippage and rope burn than with other materials.”

A spark of vicious delight makes Will grin and pull on the rope, testing his knot. “It’s true, the coconut jute doesn’t have much strength, but it more than makes up for that in pure, spiteful _meanness._ ” Will draws the word out, really playing with the sound and shape of it in his mouth, and meets Hannibal’s eye. “Anyway, I don’t plan on suspending you from the ceiling. This time, anyway.” 

At this, Hannibal arches a brow, as if to question Will’s belief that he will find himself in this position ever again. Somewhere, floating on the edge of Will’s conscious memory, is the faintest wisp of a dream. Of Hannibal bound to a tree, the ropes drawing tighter with every inescapable truth that passes his lips. Will’s hands flex and tighten into fists and he gives a rough jerk.

“And don’t think I didn’t see where you were going with that line of reasoning, _Doctor_ ,” Will says. “I’ll remind you that you’re the one trussed up right now, so maybe it isn’t the time for psychoanalysing me.”

“Of course,” Hannibal murmurs. His fingers flutter softly, useless in the air, and Will wonders what the gesture means, how he would be using them if he were free. But then Hannibal adds, “This is for you.”

It is nothing in Hannibal’s particular tone. Not the slightest hint of condescension. No judgement, no humour lurking in his eyes. All the same, Will is learning to read Hannibal a little more with every passing day. More, he’s learning to _understand_ him. Which is worse. Which is dangerous.

Will knows when Hannibal is toying with him. What Hannibal doesn’t yet realise is how far he has miscalculated.

Moving quick and sure, Will brings the rope over the top Hannibal’s thigh and loops it around, passing from one hand to the other. Hannibal chokes off a sound when Will draws it tight, the rope burning a path over his skin. It pulls his knee up and to the side, leg folded in half, foot tucked up against the curve of his ass. The position leaves him open and exposed in a way that Will is frankly astonished Hannibal has allowed and suddenly, something shifts, hanging thick in the air between them.

Will swallows hard, even as he continues with his pattern, lashing more and more rope down from hip to knee, reinforcing the binding. This, this throb of arousal pulsing deep in Will’s gut, is unexpected. Of course he isn’t blind to the sexual aspect of what he’s doing, and drawing a reaction from Hannibal a large part of the reasoning behind this whole experiment.

But this...Will hasn’t allowed himself to dwell on the unavoidably erotic aspect of the game they’ve been playing with one another since his imprisonment. He cannot deny it’s presence, but neither has he looked it head on and now his tendency to avoid confrontation has caught up with him again, leaving him woefully unprepared.

Hannibal catches him staring. Will’s desire must play out over his face, as good as the spoken word. Hannibal’s eyelids dip low once, twice, and his lashes rest against his cheek briefly. When he speaks, there is the slightest thread of laborious unease in the timbre of his voice. “Is--is that where this is headed then?”

Will sees right through him. “You’re the one who has encouraged me to become intimate with my instincts.”

Hannibal wets his lips, the tip of his tongue glistening and Will tracks the movement. “You are so close to realising your potential. I would never stand in the way of that.” His voice grows more strained with every word spoken. Is he at last feeling the effects of his bondage?

Chuckling, Will tugs loose the third bundle of rope. “Let’s not pretend this isn’t something you’ve been angling for since the moment we met,” he says. He runs the end back and forth over his pursed lips, considering the picture Hannibal makes before him. 

Nearly naked and at Will’s mercy, he still looks remarkably put together. Even with his skin bulging white around the bands of rope, his cheeks flushed red, growing erection tenting his boxers. “As is often the case with you, expectation pales next to reality,” Hannibal says.

“Your mistake,” Will says, lacing the rope through the o-ring, and rolling Hannibal onto his back again, “is that you think you could ever learn to anticipate my actions.”

“You are an endless source of surprise,” Hannibal tells him, with that sort of naked, hungry adoration that makes Will’s skin crawl. He still hasn’t decided if it’s a pleasant sensation or not. “I can only await the revelation of your design with bated breath.”

Will huffs in laughter. “And what a design you make.” He runs his hand down Hannibal’s unbound leg, keeping his touch light. It is surprisingly enjoyable, the feel of soft, crisp hair against his palm. Watching the way Hannibal’s muscles flex and strain from his touch, against the restraints. “It seems counter-intuitive,” he says, wrapping the rope behind Hannibal’s knee, “but many of the poses aren’t particularly conducive to intercourse.”

Hannibal inhales sharply. “I suppose it entirely depends on why one is engaging in Semenawa to begin with,” he muses. His expression has softened, eyes warm and inviting, lips parted almost welcomingly. Will wants to sink his hands into the silky-fine hair fanned out over the bed sheets, and kiss those lips swollen. 

How is he to take this? Is Hannibal experiencing some of that so-called rope drunkenness? Or is he putting on a show, knowing what Will hopes to achieve? Will finds himself giving into temptation, running his fingers through Hannibal’s hair. “You would look exquisite in the suspended poses.” 

Hannibal turns into the touch, nudging his cheek against Will’s hand, encouraging. “Perhaps next time.”

“You’ve changed your tune awfully quickly,” Will says. He cups his hand against Hannibal’s face, thumb sweeping over the sharp line of his cheekbone.

“I am adaptable,” Hannibal says. “So, it seems, are you. More than you realised, I think.”

“Hmm.” Will leans back suddenly, giving a firm pull at the end of the rope, spreading Hannibal’s legs open wide. “I bet you have all sorts of fun toys in that basement of yours,” he says. He brings the rope through the o-ring again, hoisting Hannibal’s leg higher, and bringing the end back to loop around his ankle. “Places to hang your victims, to drain and store them. Hooks and ropes and pulleys…I can just see you hanging there, too.”

Once again, he’s thinking out loud, expecting no confirmation from Hannibal. His lies are by omission, unlike Will’s. That Will doesn’t know, precisely, where his lies begin and the truth ends is inconsequential, at this point. 

So when Hannibal draws a breath and says, “It would be the first time a body has been hung there willingly,” Will’s heart leaps into his throat, beating double time. The rope slips in his suddenly slack hand, allowing Hannibal’s leg to fall into a somewhat more natural position. 

That won’t do. Will shakes his head, grabs the rope tightly, and pulls it taut again, before tying off the end around Hannibal’s ankle. He rests his hands on the soft skin of Hannibal’s inner thighs, just under the line of his boxer shorts. His thumb catches the leg of the fabric and gives a little tug. “You are showing remarkable trust in me this evening, Doctor Lecter.”

Hannibal turns his head to the side, regarding him evenly. “Have you not earned it?”

And there goes Will’s heart again, racing ever faster. His stomach roils. It’s absurd to feel guilt over what he plans. He blindly shoves it away, leaning in to loom over Hannibal, bringing their mouths close together. Enough that they brush when Will speaks. “In that case,” he whispers, ignoring the pounding in his head, the sudden light-headedness. He rubs at the line of Hannibal’s cock, coaxing him to full hardness. “Let me fuck you.”

Hannibal arches upward, pressing their lips together more firmly. It isn’t quite a kiss. He looks Will right in the eye. “I won’t deny you.”

Will groans, eyes falling shut, angles his head to kiss Hannibal properly. Something in him thrills at the way Hannibal surrenders to it, lips soft and full, parting easily for Will’s questing tongue. This is dangerous. More dangerous than displaying Randall. More dangerous than faking Freddie’s death. This isn’t the risk of losing his life or freedom. Here, with Hannibal, he risks losing something far worse.

Then he draws back, and there’s that magnetic hunger he’s tried so long to resist, and Will realises he’s already falling, headlong, into the abyss. It doesn’t matter if Randall was self defense, or that Freddie is safe and sound under Jack’s watchful eye. None of that is going to save him. He’s already lost.

There’s a pair of shears lying next to Hannibal on the bed; Will brought it along for the rope. Instead, he hooks one half of the blade through the leg of the boxers, teasing the tip along the skin, leaving an angry red scratch in his wake. He lifts the fabric from skin before slicing neatly through. Hannibal goes still, holding his breath, watching as the silk falls apart with each snip, until it lies in ruins on the bed.

Will climbs to his feet, legs shaky beneath him, and goes to the bedside table. In this tidy room, everything neatly in it’s place, he knows just where to find the lube and condoms. Part of him still can’t quite believe this is happening. He’s spent so long fighting against this, refusing to allow himself to see Hannibal as a sexual creature, that being presented with the evidence is startlingly incongruous. 

But there it is, Hannibal’s cock curving long and hard against his stomach, the foreskin pulling back just to expose the leaking head. His puckered hole left exposed in this position, inviting. Will can’t ignore the effect it’s having on him, his erection trapped, painfully hard, in his jeans. He practically breaks the zipper in his haste to strip out of them, shoving down jeans and boxers all at once. They get tangled up with his shoes, and he has to bend to get them off, leaving them in a pile before climbing back between Hannibal’s splayed legs.

Hannibal hisses at the first touch of Will’s lube covered fingers, still cold. It will warm quickly enough. Will quiets him with another kiss, searching blindly with his fingers. He’s never done this, and Hannibal must know it, but he doesn’t protest as Will’s finds what he’s looking for and sinks two fingers inside. Hannibal’s body opens as easily and willingly for Will’s fingers as his mouth for Will’s kiss. He lets out a low, tremulous moan that travels between their joined mouths and sinks into Will’s chest.

Will pushes his fingers as deep as he can and drags them back slowly. It’s remarkably arousing, the way Hannibal’s body clenches around him, tight and so fucking hot. Impatient, Will pulls his hand free, pours more lube over his fingers, and sinks three inside this time. Hannibal grunts, biting down on Will’s bottom lip, and he twists, hips lifting as much as he can manage in this position.

“Am I going to hurt you?” Will whispers against his lips. “If I fuck you now?”

Hannibal gives the most infinitesimal shake of his head. “Not in any lasting way.”

“Good.” Will pulls his fingers out and leans back, grabbing Hannibal by one hand on the hip and one of the length of rope from ankle to back, and rolls him onto his stomach. The position makes his ass rise up in the air, back curved in a long, elegant line, face pressed into the sheets. 

Will just stares, tearing open the condom and rolling it down his cock, slathering more lube between Hannibal’s asscheeks and using two fingers to push it inside his hole. His cock twitches, impatient, and Hannibal turns to rest his cheek against the bed, looking back at him, expression hot and expectant. Invitation and challenge.

“Fuck,” Will groans, and scoots up on his knees, guiding himself to the place where his fingers breach Hannibal’s body. “Fuck, I--” Can’t believe he’s doing this. Can’t believe Hannibal’s allowing it. Can’t _do this, Will don’t do this, don’t_ \--and then his fingers slip free and Will rocks forward smoothly, thrusting inside, and “Oh, fuck, Hannibal.”

Hannibal makes a strange, strangled sound, and it takes Will a moment to realise he’s used his first name. Giving more and more of himself away, however unintentionally. “Will,” he says, voice raw, “there is no need to be gentle with me.”

“Oh,” Will says, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the skin of Hannibal’s back, red and irritated from the scratchy jute. He chuckles, and hooks a finger under the restraints around Hannibal’s wrist, uses that for leverage as he rocks deeper. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

Will doubts he could be gentle if he wanted to be right now. Hannibal’s body pulls him in greedily and Will answers in kind. He fucks Hannibal hard, letting all his angry, confused desperation bleed through. He lays himself over Hannibal’s back, the jute scraping against the sensitive skin of his chest and belly, pulling Hannibal’s legs open wide around him. 

The strain is clear on Hannibal’s face, but he moans in pleasure as Will spears him on his cock. When Will shoves a hand beneath him and wraps it around Hannibal’s cock, it’s slick with precum, easing the way. He jerks Hannibal off fast, grip as tight and merciless as the bonds holding him in place, and Hannibal just begs him for more, actually _begs_ voice full of desperate entreaty. The way he shapes Will’s name on a long, low moan, as though gripped by honest need for Will’s cock inside him.

Of course Hannibal always intended for this to happen between them, Will thinks, thrusting deeper and harder savagely. Of course Hannibal always intended for them to become so deeply entwined with one another as to be impossible to separate the individual again. Will rocks deep, grinding his pelvis against Hannibal’s ass, gritting his teeth, already so close to cumming.

Will growls, twisting his wrist on the upstroke, dragging his thumb around the head of Hannibal’s cock. He grins, when Hannibal comes, hips leaping into Will’s touch, cock sliding through his fist wetly. Of course, this isn’t _how_ Hannibal imagined it. Will sinks his teeth in the stretch of skin between the ropes over Hannibal’s shoulder and bites down hard enough to break the skin, leaving behind sharp red indentations in the shape of his mouth. 

He doesn’t let up, holding tightly to Hannibal’s cock and wrist, fucking deep, worrying the skin between his teeth until he tastes copper on his tongue. It’s shocking, how something so simple, something he’s never taken any sexual pleasure from, now causes arousal to flare hot and bright down his spine. He rests flush against the swell of Hannibal’s ass and cums, jerking through each pulse.

Beneath his weight, Hannibal is limp. Finally his muscles no longer pull at the restraints, grown accustomed to the position. Will licks once more over the purpling skin under his mouth before straightening. He pulls free of Hannibal’s body, ties off the condom and tosses it aside, grinning at the thought of dirtying Hannibal’s pristine room.

Will lies at Hannibal’s side, hand drawing lightly down the row of bindings around his neck and shoulders, the thread leading down to his hands. Will picks up the shears again, uninterested with fumbling with the knots, and begins to snip through them. Whether from experience or from having studied the subject, Hannibal knows to move slowly, letting his muscles relax gradually so they don’t spasm.

First his hands and arms, free from the elbow down, straightening out at his sides. Then the bonds holding his right knee up and open, and the row of lashes holding his left leg bent in half. As he moves, Will’s attention is once again stolen by his exposed opening, glistening wet from lube, and unthinking, Will pushes two fingers inside him again, coaxing forth a groan. 

Hannibal’s presses his face into the bedspread and he shoves his hips back, taking Will’s fingers deep. Will feels blindly, probing until he feels a difference in texture that makes Hannibal’s body tense and then loosen again. He sits up, wiping his hand on the sheets, and turns Hannibal onto his back again; Will wants to be able to see his face.

Will surges up to claim Hannibal’s mouth again, slicking his tongue along Hannibal’s. He shoves his fingers back in roughly, finding that place again, making Hannibal squirm against the bonds still holding his arms tightly to his sides and breathe Will’s name.

“I’m going to take you apart,” Will growls.

Hannibal smiles, and Will can feel the sharp edge of it against his lips. “I can’t wait,” he says.


End file.
